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3/31/11

"To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed. Just as the camera is a sublimation of the gun, to photograph someone is a sublimated murder—a soft murder, appropriate to a sad, frightened time."

"Much of modern art is devoted to lowering the threshold of what is terrible. By getting us used to what, formerly, we could not bear to see or hear, because it was too shocking, painful, or embarrassing, art changes morals — that body of psychic custom and public sanctions that draws a vague boundary between what is emotionally and spontaneously intolerable and what is not."

"But the very question of whether photography is or is not an art is essentially a misleading one. Although photography generates works that can be called art—it requires subjectivity, it can lie, it gives aesthetic pleasure—photography is not, to begin with, an art form at all. Like language, it is a medium in which works of art (among other things) are made."

Oh morris dancing, so charming and yet so tragically underappreciated in our crumbling culture of inanity. Perhaps if they introduced more massive tits or Justin Bieber or internet memes into their routines people would care. Anyhoo, the terminology used in this style of dance is mighty interesting:

"Like many activities, morris dancing has a range of words and phrases that it uses in special ways.
Many participants will refer to the world of morris dancing as a whole as the morris. A morris troupe is usually referred to as a side or a team. The two terms are interchangeable. Despite the terminology, morris dancing is hardly ever competitive. A set (which can also be referred to as a side) is a number of dancers in a particular arrangement for a dance. Most Cotswold morris dances are danced in a rectangular set of six dancers, and most Northwest dances in a rectangular set of eight; but there are many exceptions. A jig is a dance performed by one (or sometimes two) dancers, rather than by a set. Its music does not usually have the rhythm implied by the word jig in other contexts. The titles of officers will vary from side to side, but most sides have at least the following:

The role of the squire varies. In some sides the squire is the leader, who will speak for the side in public, usually lead or call the dances, and often decide the programme for a performance. In other sides the squire is more of an administrator, with the foreman taking the lead, and the dances called by any experienced dancer.

The foreman teaches and trains the dancers, and is responsible for the style and standard of the side's dancing. The foreman is often "active" with the "passive" dancers.

The bagman is traditionally the keeper of the bag — that is to say, the side's funds and equipment. In some sides today the bagman acts as secretary (particularly bookings secretary) and there is often a separate treasurer.

On some sides a ragman manages and co-ordinates the team's kit or costume. This may include making bell-pads, ribbon bads, sashes and other accoutrements.

Many sides have one or more fools. A fool will usually be extravagantly dressed, and communicate directly with the audience in speech or mime. The fool will often dance around and even through a dance without appearing really to be a part of it, but it takes a talented dancer to pull off such fooling while actually adding to and not distracting from the main dance set. Those who are unkind in the audience often refer to the entire group as a "pack of fools".

Pete the Royal Liberty Morris fool

Many sides also have a beast: a dancer in a costume made to look like a real or mythical animal. Beasts mainly interact with the audience, particularly children. In some groups this dancer is called the hobby." http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morris_dance

Here's what's been gleaned so far: every member of the nouveau rebel class gets tattooed on Sunday. It's a 'thing' apparently. There are museum wings dedicated to it; devices go clackety clack into the galleria. A tedious fresco motif, symbolic of personal hardship and triumph. Paens to being so personally fucking awesome. An Asian element, why not. A touch of lyricism to boast about in bars. There would be anecdotes, because that's what matters most to certain people. The supreme tidiness of the self-fulfilling prophecy. Economy as a term has been rubberized for the trampolining of verbal anvils. Gang, I fear most heartily that I am lacking in some fundamental adhesive, and it's awful; I beg your pardons. It is a tic-society: one job is corralling maniacs for the amusement of the populace, another is damage control. Colossal spill cleanup. Charity galas. Primordial content wars. Get it? It's the Byzantine all over again for the first time, friends, and the electorate is in need of intimidation.

"In 1493, Columbus first brought the pineapple back to a Renaissance Europe that was largely devoid of sweet foods, including fresh fruit. The pineapple's exotic nature and sweetness made it an item that soon acquired both popularity and curiosity for centuries after its European arrival. In the 1600s, King Charles posed for an official portrait while receiving a pineapple as a gift.

In colonial America, hostesses would set a fresh pineapple in the center of their dining table when visitors joined their families in their homes. Visiting was the primary means of entertainment and cultural exchange, so the concept of hospitality was a central element in colonial life. The pineapple, then, symbolized the warmest welcome a hostess could extend to her guests. If the visitors spent the night, they would be given a bedroom with a bed in which pineapples had been carved on either the bedposts or the headboard -- even if that was the master bedroom.

Creative food display became a competition among the hostesses, because it declared her personality and her family's social status. Hostesses tried to outdo one another in creating memorable dining events. In larger, more affluent homes, the doors to the dining room were kept closed to create an air of suspense and excitement over the preparations of the hostess. Colonial grocers sometimes rented pineapples to hostesses desperate to create a dining experience above their financial means. Later, once that hostess had returned the pineapple, the fruit would be sold to more affluent clients who could afford to actually buy and eat it. Regardless of ones financial ability to actually buy and eat the pineapple, however, visitors to the homes that displayed the pineapple felt particularly honored that the hostess had spared no expense to secure one on their behalf."

Look how cute. Initially Nurse had pegged this little guy for an Akita, but turns out he is a Shiba Inu, an ancient Japanese breed. It is said they make good and loyal pets, although "A distinguishing characteristic of the breed is the so-called "shiba scream". When sufficiently provoked or unhappy, the dog will produce a loud, high pitched scream. This can occur when attempting to handle the dog in a way that it deems unacceptable.The animal may also emit a very similar sound during periods of great joy, such as the return of the owner after an extended absence, or the arrival of a favored human guest."http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shiba_Inu

The Queen meets thousands of people each year in the UK and overseas. Before meeting Her Majesty, many people ask how they should behave. The simple answer is that there are no obligatory codes of behaviour - just courtesy.

However, many people wish to observe the traditional forms of greeting.
For men this is a neck bow (from the head only) whilst women do a small curtsy. Other people prefer simply to shake hands in the usual way.

On presentation to The Queen, the correct formal address is 'Your Majesty' and subsequently 'Ma'am'.

The use of lithium salts to treat mania was rediscovered by the Australian psychiatrist John Cade in 1949. Cade was injecting rodents with urine extracts taken from schizophrenic patients, in an attempt to isolate a metabolic compound which might be causing mental symptoms. Since uric acid in gout was known to be psychoactive, Cade needed soluble urate for a control. He used lithium urate, already known to be the most soluble urate compound, and observed that this caused the rodents to be tranquilized. Cade traced the effect to the lithium ion itself. Soon, Cade proposed lithium salts as tranquilizers, and soon succeeded in controlling mania in chronically hospitalized patients with them. This was one of the first successful applications of a drug to treat mental illness, and it opened the door for the development of medicines for other mental problems in the next decades. The rest of the world was slow to adopt this treatment, largely because of deaths which resulted from even relatively minor overdosing, including those reported from use of lithium chloride as a substitute for table salt. . . The application of lithium for manic illness was approved by the FDA in 1970.

In 2009, Japanese researchers at Oita University reported that low levels of naturally-occurring lithium in drinking water supplies reduced suicide rates.A previous report had found similar data in the American state of Texas.

As with cocaine in Coca-Cola, lithium was widely marketed as one of a number of patent medicine products popular in the late-19th and early-20th centuries, and was the medicinal ingredient of a refreshment beverage, 7 Up. Charles Leiper Grigg, who launched his St. Louis-based company The Howdy Corporation in 1920, invented a formula for a lemon-lime soft drink in 1929. The product, originally named "Bib-Label Lithiated Lemon-Lime Soda", contained the mood stabiliser lithium citrate and was one of a number of patent medicine products popular in the late-19th and early-20th centuries. The beverage was marketed specifically as a hangover cure. Its name was soon changed to 7 Up.

3/21/11

Open minds were in the process of being mistaken for closed hearts all the wide world over. Culinary metaphors were ubiquitous; stews spoiled, gooses cooked. Paper cups became porcelain in certain memories; still, with vistas the way they were these days, who could predict anything, death and taxes notwithstanding.

A comma swallows an amphetamine and becomes a semi colon on its back, spreadeagled, spangled with the mildew of some worn out hard drive. The lone apostrophe looks on, aghast.

3/20/11

"Carl Tanzler or sometimes Count Carl von Cosel (February 8, 1877 – July 23, 1952) was a German-born radiologist in Key West, Florida who developed a morbid obsession for a young Cuban American TB patient, Elena Milagro "Helen" de Hoyos (July 31, 1909 - October 25, 1931), that carried on well after the disease had caused her death. In 1933, almost two years after her death, Tanzler removed Hoyos's body from its tomb, and lived with the corpse at his home for seven years until its discovery by Hoyos's relatives and authorities in 1940."

"The hospital staff was dubious but with his nine 'degrees' and occasional eccentric brilliance, they let him try his approach on Elena, knowing they could do nothing themselves to save her. Using an odd mix of chemicals, herbs and even reportedly X-ray treatments, he attempted to stem the tide of her tuberculosis. It was sort of a an early attempt at chemotherapy, but with untried methods. Despite his efforts, Elena Hoyos died leaving Von Cosel despondent and once again, alone. Von Cosel got permission from her family to build her a mausoleum. There, Von Cosel used formaldehyde and other chemicals and spices to preserve the body, secretly visiting it nightly. He had a key made that no one but her sister knew about. The Hoyos's trusted Von Cosel and since he seemed to love her in life (even though it was an unrequited love), they were understanding of his fondness for visiting her grave. They did not know he was inside attempting to preserve Elena. Von Cosel paid for and built an above-ground burial vault which included a telephone so that he could communicate with her and a strange airship whose function he refused to state. During these nightly visits, he would talk to Elena's corpse and said later that one night he saw her ghost in the mausoleum. He claimed she appeared to him from that time after every night and they would have long conversations and she expressed her love for him. These nocturmal visitations continuted for two years until he lost his job at the hospital and moved to a remote shack. But he wasn't alone in his shack, for he had stolen Elena's body from the mausoleum! There he placed her body on a large bed, enough to sleep two, curtained with a cloth veil. He continued his work on her decaying body as the chemicals could only delay her body from mouldering for so long. He rubbed her entire body with strange oils and chemicals and then later had to reconstruct parts of her face with morticians wax to reform her features. He later admitted to spending long pleasant nights talking to her and professing his love. Not seeing Von Cosel outside Elena's tomb for over seven years, her sister began to suspect something was amiss. She notified the authorities and they searched her mausoleum only to find it empty. Elena's sister instantly knew who had taken her sister's body and found Von Cosel's shack and confronted him. He kindly invited her inside, and to her horror, she saw what appeared be a wax dummy in the likeness of Elena laying on the bed. He told her that he and Elena were happy and in love and invited her to come back again and visit. The sister was livid and horrified and went to the police.

They came and took what they assumed to be a dummy to the local morgue to be autopsied. The "dummy" (pictured above left, from the autopsy) was actually the long decayed corpse of Elena Hoyos; her bones held together with piano wire, her skin had been treated with wax, her eye sockets filled with glass replacements, and she'd been perfumed to mask the odor of decomposition. This was terrible enough, but what the investigators found next was truly repulsive. . ."http://www.angelfire.com/magic/scotlass/voncosel.html

As for doing good; that is one of the professions which is full. Moreover I have tried it fairly and, strange as it may seem, am satisfied that it does not agree with my constitution.

~Henry David Thoreau

If a man walks in the woods for love of them half of each day, he is in danger of being regarded as a loafer. But if he spends his days as a speculator, shearing off those woods and making the earth bald before her time, he is deemed an industrious and enterprising citizen.

~Henry David Thoreau

"There are no atheists in foxholes" isn't an argument against atheism, it's an argument against foxholes.

~James Morrow

The harsh, useful things of the world, from pulling teeth to digging potatoes, are best done by men who are as starkly sober as so many convicts in the death-house, but the lovely and useless things, the charming and exhilarating things, are best done by men with, as the phrase is, a few sheets in the wind.

The pupation of the hive mind picked up steam. Dollops of information spun their way across a landscape honeycombed with light and metal. Streams of new adjectives poured in from diffuse sources. The definition of an event had expanded fit to burst and then shattered; the resultant shards floated, quivering and softly abuzz, in the wake of the first explosion. There would be innumerable such conflagrations to follow, she thought.

3/19/11

Anything is better than this
Bliss.
Nursing on a long-stemmed bubble made of crystal.
I'm sucking on the barrel of a crystal pistol
To get a bullet to my brain.
I'm gobbling a breast, drinking myself down the drain.

I'm in such a state of Haut-Brion I can't resist.
A fist-fucking anus swallowing a fist.
You're wondering why I talk this way, so daintily!
I'll tell you after I take a pee.
Now I'm back.
Oiloholics love the breast they attack.

I'm talking about the way poetry made me free.
It's treated me very well, you see.
I climbed up inside the Statue of Liberty
In the days when you could still go up in the torch, and that was me.
I mean every part I play.
I'm drinking my lunch at Montrachet.

I'm a case of Haut-Brion turning into tar.
I'm talking about the recent war.
It's a case of having to raise your hand in life to be
Recognized so you can ask your question. Mr. Secretary! Mr. Secretary!
To the secretary of defense I say:
I lift my tar to you at Montrachet!

I lift my lamp beside the golden door to pee,
And make a vow to make men free, and we will find their WMD.
Sir, I supported the war.
I believe in who we are.
I dedicate red wine to that today.
At Montrachet, near the Franklin Street stop, on West Broadway.

Heart Art

A man is masturbating his heart out,
Swinging on the hammock of the Internet.
He rocks back and forth, his cursor points
And selects. He swings between repetitive extremes
Among the come-ons in the chat rooms.
But finally he clicks on one
World Wide Web woman who cares.

Each of her virtual hairs
Brings him to his knees.
Projects like a sneeze.
He hears her dawning toward him as he reads her dimensions,
Waves sailing the seas of cyberspace--
Information, zeros-and-ones, whitecaps of.

Caught in a tangle of Internet,
swinging in the mesh to sleep,
Rocking himself awake, sailing the virtual seas,
A man travels through space to someone inside
An active-matrix screen. Snow falls.
A field of wildflowers blooms. Night falls.
Day resumes.

This is a story about humans taking over
The country. New York is outside
His study while he works. Paris is outside.
Outside the window is Bologna.
He logs on. He gets up.
He sits down. A car alarm goes off
Yoi yoi yoi and yips as it suddenly stops.

Man has the takeover impact
of an asteroid: throwing up debris, blotting out the sun
Causing the sudden mass extinction
of the small bookstore
At the millenium. The blood from the blast cakes
And forms the planet's new crust:
A hacker from Kinshasa getting it on with one in Nome.

Their poems start
with the part about masturbating the heart--
Saber cuts whacking a heart into tartare--
Heart art worldwide
Meaning that even in the Far East the subject is love.
Here in the eastern United States,
A man is masturbating his art out.

In an Ice Age that acts hot
Only because the greenhouse effect
Is the sort of personality.
Beneath the dome of the depleted ozone, they stay cold.
Mastodons are mating on the Internet
Over the bones of dinosaur nuclear arms,
Mating with their hands.